


Lady Luck's Tired Tonight

by mickeym



Series: Randy and Michael [19]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fear of Flying, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-01
Updated: 2006-10-01
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:03:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6965647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A ficlet requested by Darkseaglass, asking for Randy/Michael.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Lady Luck's Tired Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> A ficlet requested by Darkseaglass, asking for Randy/Michael.

It's never been a secret I don't like planes, or flying. In fact 'don't like' is pretty much an understatement.

I got used to them, as much as I could, because Michael flew a lot. Around the country to the various offices and production centers for Pierson Pharmaceuticals, as well as overseas to see his family and to attend to business there. The more the corporation expanded, the more he was needed elsewhere, so it quickly reached a point where it was a matter of suck it up and deal, or check out of reality altogether. I didn't really consider that an option, so suck it up and deal, it was.

That didn't mean I had to like it, though. 

Michael was good about checking in with me on the various legs of his trips--before they took off, whenever they landed, always when he was at home. It helped, too, especially once technology caught up and he could call from the plane--though he didn't very often, since he frequently used that time to catch up reading contracts or proposals or a hundred other things that made up his version of paperwork.

On this particular trip he'd kissed me goodbye at the ungodly hour of four a.m. -- I think I'd been asleep for a couple hours, maybe -- and whispered, "love you, Caro. Talk to you this afternoon, yes?"

I muttered yes and rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head. The last thing I heard before falling back to sleep was his rich, low laugh. It was nice to know I amused him.

~~~~~

My alarm went off at seven and I realized nothing had woke me in between Michael leaving and now, and my stomach cramped up a little. I swallowed down the fear and need to panic -- bitter, bitter taste in my mouth -- and went to shower, telling myself firmly that there could be any number of reasons why Michael hadn't called yet. A glance out the window told me they probably hadn't even left yet, because it was foggier than usual, like thick pea soup hanging in the air outside.

At seven-thirty I turned the television on to catch the weather and traffic, and stopped dead in my tracks when the anchorman said, "updating you on what we know right now, a small, private owned jet slid off the runway this morning, narrowly missing a collision with another aircraft, United flight 1038, bound for Los Angeles--"

I hit mute on the button at the same time there was a sharp, brief rap on the door. It swung open before I could make my mouth work, and Miles stood there, an odd look on his face.

"It's not him, right? Tell me it wasn't--" I stopped then, because I could read it on his face. Nearly ten years together, I knew most of the expressions Miles ever wore, and this one. God. I locked my knees in place because otherwise, I'd be on the floor in a heartbeat. As it was, I was sure I was going to throw up.

"He, that is, the hospital, rang my private line just a moment ago, Mr. Taylor. Mr. Pierson is all right, though a bit banged up. I'm to bring you down as soon as you're ready to go. Apparently he's being a bit--"

"Pigheaded? Stubborn? A pain in the ass?" I wanted to hit something, really really hard. Michael would do in a pinch, even if I had to wait until he wasn't 'banged up' to do it. No, I didn't really mean that, but Jesus Christ. I swallowed hard, then swallowed again as sweat broke out on my forehead.

"Any of those will do," Miles said calmly, then reached for me as I wobbled. He guided me to the edge of the bed and thrust a trashcan at me just in time.

Nerves, relief, fear, I wasn't sure. Some combination of all of them. I was glad I hadn't had breakfast yet; less to come up, that way.

"Sorry," I muttered to Miles, but he waved my apology away, disappearing into the bathroom with the trashcan and reappearing with a cool, damp cloth and a glass of water. By the time I'd rinsed my mouth and wiped myself off I felt almost human. Almost. "Give me five minutes," I said and Miles nodded and turned for the door. "Hey, Miles?"

He turned back. "Sir?"

"Thanks."

I got the half-smile he used most of the time to express pleasure, or happiness. "I understand, Mr. Taylor--I care for him, as well."

~~~~~

Michael was growling at a nurse when I walked into his room. He was paler than usual, except for a vivid red-purple bruise spreading out from under a bandage and across his forehead. His bottom lip was swollen, with what looked like stitches in it, and he had a pressure bandage on his left wrist. He looked absolutely wonderful, even banged up and snarling. 

His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he did that… _thing_ he does so well, so instinctively, and dismissed the nurse just by looking away from her. She glared back at him and shook her head, and mock-whispered to me on her way past, "see if you can get him to act sensibly."

I snorted at that, because really, if I'd learned anything in the last decade, it was that Michael Pierson did what he damned well pleased, and to hell with the rest of the world. 

"Randy--Caro," he said as I got closer to the bed. "I didn't…I'm sorry."

"Michael. I thought--" I swallowed down the rest of the words, and instead leaned in to hug him. I heard him grunt when I squeezed too tightly, but he didn't back down, so I didn't either. I needed to hold him tight, at least for a minute, and reassure myself he was still alive. Still breathing. Still here. I squeeze again, once, then let go to perch beside him on the bed. "Sorry for what?"

"I know how you feel about planes, and about me flying."

Ghosts from ages ago flashed through my mind, but I pushed them away. Michael was here, was alive, and honestly, just getting into a car or truck and out in traffic was more dangerous than getting into an airplane. I sighed and shrugged. "You're worth a few gray hairs, darlin'." 

"Just a few?" He teased, reaching up to brush my hair back from my eyes. His own hair was liberally salt-and-pepper now, though he was vain enough to color it.

"Okay, more than a few. But I think you reached your quota today for like, the next couple of years." I leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss across his mouth, taking care not to apply any pressure. 

"So noted," he answered, just before pressing his mouth harder against mine. 

I'm still not sure which one of us whimpered, before the sound disappeared into the kiss.

~fin~


End file.
